The Quiet Night
by raendown
Summary: Eight months after John moves back to Baker Street with his newborn daughter, Sherlock holds her for the first time.


John came awake suddenly, unsure of what roused him. He lay under the thin sheet, his blanket kicked off to the side, and listened to the rare silence of the night. He knew something sounded off, but for a moment he couldn't pinpoint what it was. Perhaps hoping for some random inspiration, he gazed blearily around the room at nothing in particular.

The room was as it had always been. The faded green curtains over the window ruffled gently as the wind softly caressed Baker Street. The moonlight was only just bright enough for him to make out the shape of his desk, holding his laptop, lamp, and a slightly battered notebook. One of the drawers was slightly open from where he had been too sleepy to properly put away his books the night before.

On the other side of the room his closet doors were closed, and his clothes from yesterday were hanging somewhat out of the hamper. A few boxes were piled in the corner; boxes he had yet to unpack, even eight months after moving back in. He never seemed to have the time to go through them. Honestly, he had little inclination to anyway. He knew that quite a few of the possessions in those boxes would be strong reminders of Mary, and John was perfectly happy leaving off on that for as long as possible.

The decision to move back to Baker Street had been simultaneously the hardest decision of his life, and the easiest one. It had been hard because John remembered standing in a church, looking Mary in the eye and thinking _this is it, we're going to spend the rest of our lives together_. Throwing that away with divorce papers and custody arrangements had been a blow to a future he had thought within his grasp. It was hard letting go of the dream life. On the other hand the decision was made easy by the same person that had made it hard. Once John found out about Mary's secret past, she had changed. It was as if she no longer felt the need to hide a certain facet of her personality. Or rather, she could stop pretending to have a personality.

When the baby had been born and Mary held the little girl in her arms, John had been horrified to look in to his wife's eyes and see – absolutely nothing. She looked at her own child as she would a stranger's child: a creature that she would care for out of a sense of responsibility, but one that she held no particular affection for. Mary did not love their baby, and that didn't sit well with him. It had been the last straw, the deciding factor in his decision to leave. She hadn't even pretended to want custody, and even just the memory of that caused an angry heat in John's belly.

At first, when John had come to the decision to leave, he had been flummoxed as to where to go. His jaw had nearly hit the ground when Sherlock had assumed he would move back to Baker Street. He remembered saying _I have a child now, I can't just leave her with relatives_. His eyes had almost fallen right from his skull when Sherlock had gave him a patented 'don't be an idiot' face and said _Then bring her with you, John, do I always have to state the obvious for you? Shall I tell you to bring your clothes, in case you forget those too?_

His only protest had been where they would fit a baby in to the tiny flat. It was only just big enough for them, let alone another small person. Sherlock had been another step ahead of him. _She can have the study for a bedroom. It's not like we use it_. John had forgotten there even was a study. Next to Sherlock's room, across from the bathroom, there was a small study that held nothing but old clutter. It hadn't even been opened in so long that a thick layer of dust covered everything.

At first, John had worried about a baby living in the room next to Sherlock. Surely the man who couldn't even stand adults would abhor bunking next to a child whose only solution to every discomfort was screaming. Surprisingly, Sherlock had yet to complain. He said nothing whenever John had to pad downstairs and rock his daughter back to sleep at two or four in the morning almost every night.

Suddenly John sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide, shaking his head clear of his recollections. It had finally hit him why the silent night sounded so wrong. Shawn! There was a distinct lack of his daughter's crying, even though the clock on his nightstand told him that it was ten past four. Fighting to unravel the sheet from his legs, John hurried from the bed as fast as he could. As he scrambled to find some pajama trousers, he remembered the day he introduced Sherlock to his goddaughter.

The detective's face had been carefully blank, though John had seen the corner of his mouth twitch as he murmured _Shawn is a boy's name_. John had only shrugged, _I like it for a girl_. He'd never admitted to Sherlock exactly how he had come up with that name. It had been a miracle that Mary had liked it when he casually suggested it. Even more of a miracle was that she had ended up liking it enough to choose it. John pushed thoughts of the past away once more as he tugged the trousers over his pants, ignoring the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt, and hurried from his room.

Despite his instincts to thunder down the stairs, John tried to be quiet. It was unusual for his daughter to sleep through the night, but it wasn't unheard of. If she actually was still sleeping, he didn't want to wake her. Passing through the den, John avoided all the spots on the floor that he knew would creak. Down the hall, he crept slowly, and then stopped in his tracks.

The door to Shawn's room was open. John always closed the door when she went to sleep. He didn't need to leave it open to hear her, he had a baby monitor. So, why was it open? Feeling his heart rate increase, John pushed at the ajar door, swinging it silently in, and peeked his head around the frame. Then, for a moment, his heart stopped entirely.

In the eight months since he and Shawn had moved in to Baker Street and intruded in to Sherlock's high paced life, the detective had yet to actually hold his best friend's daughter. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was scared to, actively didn't want to, or was simply too indifferent. Either way the closest Sherlock had gotten to the nine month old baby was when her playpen was set near whatever he happened to be sitting on.

John figured all of that evidence kind of excused the tears that suddenly welled up in his eyes at the sight before him.

Sherlock wasn't rocking the child, or singing her a lullaby, or even talking to her. He wasn't a man who possessed much of a paternal instinct. Instead, he sat perfectly still in the nursery chair, cradling the baby in his long arms, and simply stared at her. Incredibly, baby Shawn was staring back. The two regarded each other in complete silence that seemed to stretch on and on until finally John realized what was happening. Sherlock was _deducing_ _the baby_. He had to put a hand on his mouth to stop the laugh that bubbled up. It took a lot longer than it would have, had it been an adult, but finally Sherlock adopted that smug look that meant he had figured something out.

"Hungry, then," he said suddenly, in a voice so soft, it was almost fond. "Should I feed you?"

Baby Shawn replied with a smile and a coo, reaching out her chubby arms, grasping at the air in front of his face. Sherlock regarded her with a confused frown.

"What?" he asked, as if he truly expected her to vocalize what she wanted from him. She continued to coo and stretch and grasp towards him. He blinked a few times before slowly tilting his head forward, lifting her closing to his face with his arms. When she was close enough, Shawn closed her fingers around an errant black curl of hair and tugged. Sherlock adopted a look of surprise, and suddenly John witnessed what could possibly be considered a true miracle.

Sherlock smiled. Baby Shawn tugged at his curls and all he did was smile, and let her. He simply continued to sit in the chair next to her crib, with his back much too straight for any normal human, and let her play with his hair. It wasn't until John felt the tears falling down his face that he even realized that he was crying. It was as beautiful and touching a moment as he would ever see Sherlock in, and it touched his heart. It was a whole new side to his friend.

Feelings that John had long since pushed down started to bubble to the surface, and he tried hard to tamp them down. He drew in a shuddering breath to steady himself, momentarily forgetting to be quiet. The jig was up when Sherlock suddenly stiffened in his chair, the smile draining from his lips. Without moving his head, curls still tightly wound around tiny fingers, Sherlock looked round with just his eyes until he and John were staring at each other.

John took his hand away from his mouth to give his flatmate a sheepish grin and Sherlock huffed, desperately fighting off the embarrassment that was creeping up his cheeks. He cleared his throat once, twice, then gently lifted his head away from Shawn's curious grasp. The baby, thinking it a game, giggled and cooed again, waving her arms about.

"She was hungry," Sherlock grumbled, as if that was some sort of defense for his sitting here, away from the kitchen, sharing secret smiles with her. John shrugged, pretending indifference. It was ruined when he swiped he wetness from his cheeks.

"You should probably feed her then," he replied.

Sherlock glared, but John didn't bother to do anything but grin back, undeterred. He was used to Sherlock pretending to be insulted instead of admitting to whatever he was feeling. It was his way of covering his vulnerability. A long minute stretched until Shawn wriggled and gurgled in the detective's arms. He looked down at her, then back up John, and then he rolled his eyes.

Standing fluidly, Sherlock held the baby girl to his chest as he swept past his friend. "Your Daddy is getting lazy," he quietly confided in her. It was surely not intended for John's ears, but the doctor heard it anyway, and he felt warmth blossom in his chest. He doubted Sherlock had ever even called his own father _daddy_. He doubted the word had ever passed his lips until now.

He padded softly back up the hall and followed the pair in to the kitchen and watched, amazed, as Sherlock moved about the kitchen in swift, sure movements. Shawn stayed cradled safely in one arm as his other arm grabbed a bottle and formula and prepared it with ease, as if he did this every day.

John found himself suddenly faced with a sight that was equal parts utterly ridiculous and incredibly moving. Sherlock Holmes, standing in the kitchen, with John Watson's daughter in one arm and a bottle in the other, feeding her like a true guardian. The tears started to gather again, but John shook them away. Harder to shake off was the tight warmth that was slowly spreading throughout his entire body. Sherlock had changed, and he had changed for John. Whatever that said about the two of them.

"Happy?" Sherlock's sulky grumble almost startled him. He grinned.

"This is the happiest I've ever been in my entire life," he answered honestly. He watched his friend blink, not expecting that answer, then he rolled his eyes. John didn't mind. He knew his answer had pleased the younger man, even if he would never admit it, probably not even to himself.

John watched the two of them, listened to the swelling of his chest, and before he could chicken out, suddenly he blurted, "Shawn in a boy's name." He nearly kicked himself. That wasn't how he meant to bring it up. Sherlock pinned him with a raised eyebrow.

"I do believe I pointed that out to you in the hospital," he said in his rumbling baritone. John cleared his throat and shifted his stance. He saw the detective's eyes narrow and he saw the exact moment when the deducing began, but he didn't care.

"Do you know why I wanted to name her Shawn? What gave me the idea?" his throat was tightening and second thoughts flooded in. Why was he telling his friend this? He'd promised himself to keep this secret for as long as possible.

"I thought perhaps a small aneurysm?" was accompanied by a teasing smirk. John chuckled, the sound a little strained.

"No, no. Ah...just...say it to yourself a few times," he said. This earned him another raised eyebrow and questioning silence. John sighed. "Honestly, just say the name out loud a few times and tell me if you can figure it out. Why did I name my first born child Shawn?"

He watched, extremely nervous, and the detective furrowed his brow.

"Shawn, what it special about...Shawn? _Shawn_. Sh...awn...oh." The younger man's throat bobbed as he swallowed convulsively and met the doctor's eye. John was absolutely floored to see a slight wet shine in his eyes as he whispered, "Shawn...Sherlock and John. Is that...you named her...after..." he couldn't seem to finished the sentence.

"I named her after you _and_ me. I lied to you on that airstrip. I had every intention of naming my child after my best friend." John felt himself start to ramble, but didn't fight it. "Did you know there actually is a female version of the name Sherlock? Sounds exactly the same but it's spelled Scirloc. I didn't think Mary would appreciate that, and it would get hard to tell you two apart. Shirley was just a bit obvious, and besides, it sounds like I'm making fun of you. Actually I thought you might figure it out of your own but-" John stopped talking suddenly when he found his mouth blocked.

It took a moment to sink in why his words had stopped. Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the most brilliant mind that this earth had to offer, was kissing him, John Watson. With a soft whimper, John kissed back.

It wasn't heated, as he had always fantasized. It was chaste, a gentle press of lips, simple movements, and yet it was exactly right. The kiss lingered for just the right amount of time until Sherlock pulled back and John opened his eyes to witness the second miracle of this utterly mad night.

Sherlock was blushing: full on cherry red blushing, with no attempt to hide it. It looked absolutely beautiful on his alabaster skin, but so did the tentative smile on his lips. John couldn't fight the grin that spread across his face, so instead he leaned up in to the taller man and they were kissing again, moving together in perfect synchronization, the same as every thing else they did together.

This time they were pulled apart by a soft cooing noise. Without pulling away from each other, they both looked down. Baby Shawn stared back up at them, her own smile just as pleased. Somehow, John felt like she knew she had had a hand in this. The thought almost made him chuckle until he took a good look at how the three of them were all pressed together like a woven family unit. He looked from Shawn to Sherlock with a mischievous expression.

"How do you feel about being called Papa?" he asked. Sherlock's face turned scandalized, and John burst out laughing.

He couldn't help thinking that he had had been wrong. _This_ was the happiest he had ever been in his life.


End file.
